


Pucks and Kisses

by littlelostsputnik



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Drug Use, Fluff, Hockey, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pucks and Kisses, Recreational Drug Use, Violence, future crossover, just on the good side of puberty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-10 03:55:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3275738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelostsputnik/pseuds/littlelostsputnik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is a Legacy. Son of Defenseman Joe 'The Bull' Rogers, his birth was announced to the hockey community by flashing lights and press releases. A world away, James Barnes, from a young age, was slated to be the future of hockey in Russia before the prestige of the NHL encouraged the young centre to defect from his native homeland. But hockey thrives on violence and when Barnes struggles to recover from a concussion delivered by #88-Rumlow, 'Cap' is brought in to protect the troubled player.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Next Great Defenseman

Steven Grant Rogers was well aware of the responsibilities placed upon him from a young age. It began the moment his existence was extracted from his father by the ever-listening microphones of the media (harsh lights and riding a post-game adrenaline high). Continuing even after the day his father failed to wake up from a misplaced skate to the neck.

Rogers’ boy. Joe’s kid. The next Great Defenseman.

At the tender age of three, Steve had been bundled up in his thickest jacket one warm July day and hoisted on a father’s hip into the air-conditioned hockey rink. Introductions were hardly needed as men on the team took turns greeting the sickly, yet inquisitive, child with warm hello’s and gentle hugs. It was a life perpetually monitored by one overprotective mother and twenty-three fathers.

By the age of four rolled around, Sarah and Steve were a constant presence at the rink and the photos captured of the little blond child, face pressed against the glass as his father skated past, were quickly the highlight of most sports magazines. It was also the age when sharpened skates were strapped to tiny, wriggling feet and with mother and father on either side Steve took his first glides across the ice.

From that moment there was only one thing stopping Joseph ‘The Bull’ Rogers and his progeny and it reared its head one cold, late night when the tiny, fevered frame of his son was unable to breath. Lips began the slow transition to blue as oxygen failed to enter his inflamed airway. His wife carried their only child into the makeshift steam room, placed a lukewarm cup of coffee to quivering lips, and kissed the soft line of the childs hair. Joe found the coordination to dial three little digits.

By the grace of an almighty presence, Steve had managed to survive and by day three in the hospital had enough energy to complain about when their next practice would be. It brought laughter from the single room where days before the soundtrack had been quiet, reserved sobs.

Asthma, was the first of many diagnoses assigned to the boy that never gave up. The scrawny kid from Brooklyn who could hardly play a full minute without shakily returning to the bench to scramble for the inhaler tucked in a nearby bag, or the nebulizer his mother would hold up to his mouth when lungs protested against the cold and activity and panic flooded his gaze.

But this was the minor league, it was supposed to be for fun and Sarah Rogers would not deny her son one of the few things he enjoyed. And so, day after day, week after week, Steve squirmed into his protective gear, laced up his skates, and did his best to make his father proud.

At seven, stained jerseys and a growing red puddle on the ice reduced him down to one mother and twenty-two fathers.

Steve’s games afterwards had been a media circus - games played by six and seven year olds hosting big name sports reporters, internet bloggers, and even some of Joe’s friends in an attempt to show their support. But the sport was too slow, the kids too new, and the footage failed to reveal Joseph ‘The Bull’ Rogers replacement. Instead revealed the sickly, asthmatic his genes had produced. After his death the news crews, and surrogate hockey fathers, stopped coming altogether.

Mrs. Rogers had done her best to protect her son, shielding his small body from the cameras before whisking him away in the tattered minivan sporting the New York Rangers vinyl logo. From the rink the routine never changed, apple pie at the local diner and a trip to the art store with the okay to pick out one item. It was tradition.

Time had passed, hockey legends had come and gone, but Joe’s boy continued to played on. Through the remainder of elementary, coasting through middle school, and finally ending up on the right side of puberty and sporting the blue and yellow jersey of Xaverian High School, Steve Rogers had finally succeeded in following his fathers footsteps.

The school paper had been first to report on the the six foot plus giant swooping down the ice and doing a damn fine job of preventing other teams from scoring. A defenseman, just like Joe, with little sign of the childhood maladies that had prevented his time on the ice. Game after game the crowd of followers grew and by the end of his senior year, Steve had become the talk of the nation.

Offers had poured in, too many calls to field and not enough time in the day to listen to the pitches repeated every time the phone was removed from its cradle.

Two months before high school graduation, a scholarship to play for Notre Dame, and a phone call that changed his life.

“Mr. Rogers, you need to come home. Your mother has passed.”

The news wasn’t a shock, it was 55 months coming. Multiple myeloma, diagnosed Stage II. A careful balance of school work, hockey practice, and caring for his ailing mother cumulating to a single point where the newly orphaned teen stood above the uncovered casket. Calloused fingers reaching down into the wood stained box to brush the small tuft of dust that had settled on painted cheeks.

At eighteen, Steven Grant Rogers was an orphan. With a generous inheritance as a reminder of a support that had once been physical, arms picking him off the ground and to safety, he was now alone. There was nothing to do but continue on the path that been set for him.

On a calm Wednesday morning, Mrs. Sarah Rogers was buried alongside her husband whilst their only son said goodbye; accompanied by a host of hockey players and their families, who said farewell to the wife of their former teammate.

 

* * *

 

 Months passed, Steve leaving the brownstone of his childhood for the dorms of Notre Dame and the ice of the Fighting Irish. The team took to him immediately and with his outgoing personality, charming smile, and talent on the ice, he was never short a good time.

Following in the academic path of his mother, days were filled with painting and studies of those great artists before him while early mornings and evenings were devoted to his fathers passions. Coming in on the fourth line, right winger, he was everything his father had not been - yes, he was a decent shot but his biggest asset to the team was protection. A right hook was more damaging to an opposing team than a snapshot.

Junior year had been a rush of hard hits. Knuckles had been bruised and battered more frequently than Steve, the surprisingly passive player would usually tolerate. Being voted Captain in a unanimous decision meant even more pressure from the sport that dictated his life. Grades began to fall at the height of the season as the stress of team responsibilities weighed heavily on his shoulders. Coupled with schoolwork and the pain radiating from perpetual bruises there was no surprise to his teammates when an ambulance was called to the team house in the middle of the night.

Number thirteen NHL draft pick, Steve ‘Cap’ Rogers had been rushed to the hospital due to an overdose of valium. Within hours his story had been leaked to the press and by the morning the news of America’s Golden Boy was national. It had been determined not to be a suicide attempt. Steve assured medical professionals that whilst things were hard at the end of the day it had been pain coupled with severe fatigue that had caused him to take his usual dosage, forget, and repeat the process. That is, until fellow linemate, Peter Quill, had found the Brooklyn boy heavily slurring his words while trying to dial the same paramedics that picked him up.

 

“Tonight, on First Line, Joseph Rogers son, Steve Rogers, made what friends are calling a suicide attempt….”

“Pressure mounting for college hockey, player nearly takes own life.”

“ ‘Captain America’, Son of Famed Joe ‘The Bull’ Rogers, hospitalized.”

 

It was the end of a career. Notre Dame removed him from their roster, promising to allow him to finish his degree on scholarship as long as he made no public speeches about the incident. The NHL pulled his ranking and by the end of his senior year, Steve Rogers no longer was the future star of the NHL but a civilian people recognized but couldn’t place from where.

 

* * *

 

 Three years later, Steve progressing through his career as a restoration artist when a well-timed phone call, by a desperate team, plunged him face-first back into a life he thought he’d left behind.

“You want me to play for the Colorado Commandos?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to: [hohniebear](http://hohniebear.tumblr.com/), [ilgaksu](http://ilgaksu.tumblr.com/), and [theshadiertwin](http://theshadiertwin.tumblr.com/), for all their help. 
> 
> Come talk to me about hockey on [tumblr](http://alittlelostsputnik.tumblr.com/) and fall into the trap of hockey au. Previous hockey knowledge is not required.


	2. 1.5 - Cognitive Recalibration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chicago RedSkulls v. Washington Assassins.  
> Ten minutes into the 3rd period.

Rivalries. The sport lived, breathed, and survived on the constant competition for the same end goal - The Stanley Cup.

 

Chicago RedSkulls v. Washington Assassins.

Ten minutes into the 3rd period.

 

“The shot is deflected high, into the glass as…”

 

Deafening silence. Where was the rest of the sentence? Announcers never trailed off, too lost in their own voices to stop the onslaught of running commentary.

 

_“что случилось…”_

A question posed to his team that tasted like cotton and pain. A question that never made it past the slight wheeze of air releasing from a stuttered breath.

 

A jarring, short screech of a whistle joined the ringing in his ears.

 

“Oh boy!”

**_“что случилось…”_ **

“Barnes is hammered down…”

_**“что случилось…”** _

“...to the ice by #88, Rumlow.”

 

_“помогите…… что….. случилось…”_

Softer voices, closer to his head, with words so close in comprehension but to think about understanding them was met with more of the blinding pain and the feeling of running a hand through water-logged rice.

 

“Barnes…”

_мне._

“Barnes, are you okay?”

_“что случилось…”_

“Buck, wake up buddy.”

 

Eyelids felt like weighted anchors being drawn up from the depths of the ocean floor after years of accumulating seaweed. Only to slam shut again when the blinding lights brought on a wave of nausea and body-convulsing pain.

  
“We need a stretcher. Now!”


	3. The Howling Commandos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erskine Arena, home of the AHL Colorado Commandos - and now Steve Rogers.

Any player will tell you that there is no feeling like stepping onto the playing field for the first time. Whether turf, grass, or ice - the emotion that first wells up does not have a description in English. After three years, the feeling can be almost overwhelming.

First day jitters. Butterflies in the stomach. Performance anxiety.  
There were countless ways to describe it but it never made the buzzing in his arms stop, or the turbulent waves that crashed in the pit of his stomach cease. Deep breaths, that’s what his mother had always told him.

Erskine Arena, home of the AHL Colorado Commandos - and now Steve Rogers.

The locker room had been empty when he arrived, two hours before the start of practice. A freshly printed name-tag had been tacked above one of the empty cubbies that now contained the hardly used gear from his college days.

“Not even a game and you can’t even rein in the nerves.”

Hiding the slight tremor of his hands, Steve took to lacing the skates that had seen him through most of his career at Notre Dame. The slight rasp of waxed laces against metal eyelets, the rub of synthetic leather, and the tick of a distant clock were his soundtrack for the morning.

There had been a reason to his early arrival, since after three years of blades not touching ice there was a desperate need to get in some practice before meeting the team that had pulled him from early retirement.

No pads were needed, no helmet or protective equipment. Just the knowledge that for a little while he would be alone to make the same mistakes he had made as a four and five year old. This time, he wouldn’t have the safety of his parents hands holding him above the frozen ground.

Another calculated breath, pale gaze taking in the empty locker room one last time before strong thighs pushed him from the bench and guided the rest of his 6ft frame through double doors and out onto the freshly resurfaced ice.

 

* * *

 

“Well...if it isn’t the Golden Boy.”

Sarcasm, a tone of voice the disgraced player knew all too well.

“Look what we have here boys, our very own Captain Steve Rogers.”

Laughter traveled through the group of men funneling out onto the ice, gazes pulled to the dark-haired outsider balancing easily on sharpened blades at centre line.

The team was circling like sharks around a capsized boat and Steve had no way to escape. Mouth opened in order to defend himself before the sharp screech of a whistle halted the words and pulled his eyes to the brunette stepping out onto the ice.

Coach Carter. Former goalie for the CWHL Montreal Stars and known for pushing players into the majors. With curled hair, red lipstick, and perfectly shaped brows - Peggy Carter looked like a poster child for the 1940s, not the coach of a semi-professional mens hockey team.

“Boys, back off.”

The woman exuded a take no shit attitude and it was clear the Commandos respected her. On red skates, her signature from when she saved pucks instead of bossing grown men, the British expat glided effortlessly toward the newest addition to the roster.

“As most of you have figured out, this is Steve Rogers. Rogers, this is the team.” A small nod issued in the general direction before attention was turned to the clipboard and the silver whistle was raised to lips once more. “Okay, I hope everyone is warmed up because after last weeks loss you fellows have another date with suicides.”

A collective groan, the loudest belonging to the large redhead near the goal. Timothy “Dum Dum” Dugan had been the talk of the town when Steve had just been a kid, an immovable wall between the posts and an asset to any team. At least until the drinking became habitual rather than occasional and when the time came for the Avalanches to place him on waivers, the unclaimed NHL veteran had known he would spend his remaining years in the AHL.

Even Steve could not suppress the small grumble that manage to make it past tight lips. Three years was a long time to be off the ice, especially when that time was spent hunched over aging works of art and leading herds of children through the exhibits on field trip day. Yes, he kept up with his exercise, but suicides...well...they had not received the name because they were a walk in the park.

 

* * *

 

The screech of the whistle echoed through the halls of Erskine Arena, unleashing a handful of players across the ice with quick scrapes of metal on frozen water.

Up first were Rogers, Dugan, Coulson, Dernier, and Sawyer.

“Accelerate as fast as possible up to the blue line then come to a complete stop.”

The unwavering voice of his father caught the blonde by surprise and he faltered slightly on the thin blade that supported his weight. Not enough to go down - he didn’t need that level of embarrassment this early on - but enough to earn a definite lift of the brow from his coach.

The scramble back to the goal-line was won by Sawyer, earning him the beginnings of what looked to be an elaborate handshake from Juniper. At least, until the whistle blew once more and the second group was released onto the ice like bullets from a gun.

Morita, Jones, Falsworth, Juniper, and Pickerton were next.

This was the time for Steve to catch his breath, for the rest of the group to take in a few large pulls of oxygen before another explosive burst of energy would be required, this time to the center red line.

And the exercise would continue until they reached the goal line on the opposite side and returned - in the words of Peggy Carter, that was one.

One out of five.

 

* * *

 

The entire drill from start to completion had taken the team nearly forty minutes. Even in the world of professional hockey it was a brutal test of endurance and stamina - both traits that Steve had long lost to desk jobs and too many beers after work.

The whistle called for a break, the former rising star shuffling his way back to the bench in order to take advantage of the five minutes. Teeth closed down on the spout of the newly purchased water-bottle, allowing the liquid to trickle down his throat and quench the thirst that had risen up halfway through the drill.

His lungs felt like bursting, something he had not experienced since his time as a pre-pubesent defensmen in high school and while he had carefully tucked the prescribed inhaler into the side pocket of his bag there was no way he would be taking a puff of it this early on. No, his lungs would manage and he would have plenty of other opportunities to show just how out-of-shape he had allowed himself to get.

Fingers tightened around the edge of the bench, breathing slowing down to pull precious oxygen into tight lungs. Five minutes to rest, and Steve was going to take every second.

Three minutes and twenty seconds. The time it took for his silence to be noticed and the first of the team taking the initiative for small talk. It started with the slight jolt of the bench as the obvious rookie took over the space beside the former restoration artist.

“Hey there! Names Coulson, everyone just calls me Agent.”

A split second of confusion before an ungloved hand lifted to offer a weak wave. “Steve...Rogers.” The name was foreign to him, at the museum he had been simply Mr. Rogers, sometimes Steve but there was no significance. In the chill of the rink the words weighed heavily on his conscience.

Gaze lifted to catch the obvious ‘of course you are’ look that had plastered itself on the rookies features.

“Everyone knows who you are, Steve.”

It was meant to be kind, a casual reminder that Steve wasn’t just some kid pulled in from the void - that his place here had been predetermined by the stars and overzealous media. But the blond could feel the muscles in his back tighten as he thought back to his previous dabblings in the sport.

Peggy had promised that the limited PR team of the Colorado Commandos would make sure to keep the media off his back - but it wasn’t going to be surefire. Some things, such as recognition or constant recalling of his place in a legacy, would have be dealt without support.

A steady breath was released and Steve forced a smile.

“Yeah, I guess not much has changed in the past few years.”

This earned him an ear-to-ear smile from the younger man and the clap of a hand on his shoulder as the whistle blew and the herd of players began to file their way onto the ice.

“I would like to thank you all for not taking the previous drill personally, since everyone had such good attitudes we are going to enjoy the rest of today’s practice with some scrimmage. Test out our newest defenseman.”

All eyes were focused on him, the new kid, the former legacy who cracked under the pressure.

“Rogers, you will be paired up with Coulson.”

Steve could have sworn he heard a small squeal of joy from the other player as the team divided.

 

* * *

 

Two on two.

Coulson and Rogers against Jimmy and Pinky, lovingly known in the world of hockey as _The Brits_.

Dum-Dum was their goalie, his eyes following Steve as he took his place across from Pinky and waited for the small frame of their coach to skate up and release the puck.

The game started with a scramble, Steve’s experience proving useful in winning the faceoff. With the puck passed back his partner, the blond was able to untangle himself from stick that had been shoved between his legs and move across the shortened playing field to intercept the quickly moving disc.

In that moment everything had slowed down and his life was simply this moment in time. The sound of blades against the ice, the clack of sticks as Jimmy tried to knock the puck out of his possession, the one to two word calls shared between respective team members as the object of their focus was passed between the opposing sides.

Muscles that Steve hadn’t used in years burned with activity, forearms screaming as he deftly slid the piece of hard rubber between the legs of Pinky and dug the toes of his skates into the ice, propelling him toward the goal currently being guarded by the former rival of his father.

Three years had passed. Long months of staring at his skates until finally packing them up around the second summer. Countless hours turning the tv on to catch a glimpse of the start of a game before changing the channel and avoiding the part of his life that had taken so much out of him.  
But now, the worry and anxiety was gone. Replaced with the desire to do well, to do better than he had done before. Lifting his gaze to meet that of the redhead he allowed muscle memory and pure talent do the talking, body turning on the slick playing field before a shot was faked to the left and slide to the right of the goalies spread legs.

A move that Dum-Dum, despite all his experience, hadn’t anticipated.

Peggy’s whistle signaled the successful goal, Steve turning to face the line of players that were now his teammates. Faces read impressed and Steve let out a small sigh of relief before his private celebration was interrupted by a knock to the chest by Coulson.

“You did it man!”  
“We did it…” Humble to a fault.  
“Rogers, don’t even pull that shit with me. That was all you!”

Another shove, this time at his shoulder and Steve couldn’t help the smile that split across his features.

God, it felt good to play again.

The goal had seemed to ease some of the tension, even Jimmy had joined the small huddle to place a gloved hand over the protective helmet and simulate a noogie.

“Nice shot, Golden Boy. There might be hope for us yet.”

This earned another small smile before Steve took the silent cue from their fearless leader and skated back to the end of the line. For the next hour, pair after pair faced off in an attempt to better the other. They made their mistakes, small movements and moments that The Bull would have frowned upon - but this was the AHL and Steve was just happy to be getting back on the ice.

* * *

 

Four hours since first stepping off the ice, the final whistle signaled the end of the practice. Grown men, exhausted from the intense drills made their way slowly to the tunnel that would lead them into the large locker room. Mock punches were tossed, Gabe had found the opportunity to pull Dum-Dum in for a quick hug (an apology for firing a wrist shot into his knee), and Coulson was skating alongside Steve providing a running commentary that the blonde could hardly hear.

No, he was far too lost in his own thoughts to take notice of the dinner invitation extended to him by the excited rookie.

At least, until he was back at his locker and the tap of a hockey stick against the inside of his thigh caught his attention.

“Hey, Stevie, Coulson’s trying to lure you to his house so that we can ambush you for a barbeque. You’ve gotta say yes.”

James Morita, Right Wing.

“Barbeque…?” A pause, the faces of the sixteen present teammates ranging from eager to completely unaware of the situation. “Well, I was going to get settled in…” He could tell the moment Phil’s face began to fall. “But...I’ve got plenty of time to do that later. Sure, that sounds like fun. Should I bring anything?”

The magic words, instantly his fellow d-partner was shaking his head and bouncing over to the locker that had his name printed clearly above it. “No no, the guys and I have it. Tradition, it’s time to welcome you to the team.”

With back towards the center of the room, Steve allowed his smile to turn into a grimace. The last time he had been ‘welcomed to the team’ it had ended with him blackout drunk and waking up straddling Peter Quill, Alternate Captain and best friend.

_‘Never again. Two drink limit tonight.”_

Though if this group of men was anything like he anticipated, that rule would be blindly fired out the window with the force of a t-shirt cannon.

* * *

 

Dinner was at six, the address texted to him by an unknown sender that failed to respond when he inquired about the number. The small apartment he had rented for himself was still piled high with boxes and Steve knew that his focus should have remained with the unwrapped dishes and collection of art history books. And yet, team bonding was just that and he knew how important it was to the sport.

Shoving long arms into the sleeves of the dark purple cardigan, the Brooklyn native let out a long sigh before glancing at his reflection in the full-length mirror.

He looked like a god-damn school teacher, not a hockey player and as fingers ran through the short strands of straw colored hair there was little that could be done to fix it.

“At least the team will get a kick out of it.”

The slight chirp of his phone alarm alerted him to the time, thirty minutes to make it across town and hope to at least be fashionably on-time.

* * *

“Mister Rogers, nice cardigan.”

The first of many chirps could be heard as Steve entered the backyard of the Commando's goalie. Already the familiar smell of cooked meats had permeated throughout the neighborhood and drawn in teammates he had yet to meet at morning practice.

Coulson was the first to come up, head shaking and eyebrows threatened to lift right off his forehead. “Interesting choice in apparel, Cap.”

_Short for Captain._

“Well, I did just spend the last three years playing tour guide to kids. Anyways, I happen to like my cardigans.”

At least this earned him a few more smiles and a distant ‘ _Whatever you say, dad!_ ’ from the other side of the yard before a beer was placed in his hand and a chair was offered up at the edge of the expansive deck.

Everyone was here, even Coach Peggy had made an appearance with the newest addition to her family - a Siberian Husky that had quickly become the center of the party.

Hockey players and dogs, a combination that certainly could stop small armies in their tracks.

As the time passed and conversations continued, Steve took advantage the opportunity to learn more about the collective group of men that would be his family for the foreseeable future. Leaning back in the patio furniture, a swig of his beer was consumed as he allowed a relaxed smile to pass across his features.

_Wasn't too hard, certainly Steve could handle all... **this**._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to a lovely human being - [fuck-me-barnes](http://fuck-me-barnes.tumblr.com/)  
> \- on her birthday. Note: She has the same birthday as Bucky Barnes!
> 
> * * * 
> 
> Special thanks to: [hohniebear](http://hohniebear.tumblr.com/) and [theshadiertwin](http://theshadiertwin.tumblr.com/)  
> for all their help.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Come talk to me about hockey on [Tumblr](http://alittlelostsputnik.tumblr.com/) and fall into the trap of hockey au. Previous hockey knowledge is not required.

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
